How Like A Winter
by the classicist
Summary: AU, post series 9. Following the inquiry, Harry has been expelled from the Service and is most definitely out in the cold. Ruth to the rescue, then? Catherine seems to think so... Probably will only be about three chapters long. Quite a bit angsty...
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I'm meant to be working on the plan for the Regency fic in my spare time, but other ideas just keep popping up. This is going to be really short though - only three chapters. The title comes from the first line of Shakespeare's Sonnet 97. I don't own anything (and after this chapter, I think you might be glad of that fact!). Enjoy...**

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><p>"Ruth Evershed speaking." It was early on Monday morning, and she wasn't in the best of moods. Yet again, she and Erin Watts had clashed in the middle of Section D's daily briefing, and she could feel the beginnings of a horrid headache pulsing away at her temples. Her voice was perhaps sharper than necessary, so her caller hesitated before announcing herself.<p>

"Ruth... it's Catherine," she began. "Catherine Townsend. I'm – "

Ruth interrupted quickly, keeping her voice low. She was alone at the moment, but Harry Pearce wasn't exactly MI-5's flavour of the month, after all. "Harry's daughter." Ruth frowned in puzzlement. Why would Harry's daughter be calling her? Catherine gave a sigh of relief that crackled, very audibly, down the telephone line. "Oh, you remember, thank God!"

"How can I help, Catherine?" asked Ruth calmly. "You're... you're not in any trouble, are you?" Catherine was a filmmaker who had worked in some highly dangerous countries, and she was also Harry's daughter, which provided her with the temper and stubbornness of an irate mule. Visions of Catherine in some foreign jail cell flashed briefly across Ruth's mind, before Catherine reassured her, "No, no. _I'm_ fine." She hesitated again, and Ruth suddenly had a dreadful premonition of where their conversation was heading. It was inevitable, of course. "Actually... it's Dad," Catherine murmured.

Ruth gritted her teeth, unsure of what to say. How did you speak of a man who, not six months ago, had given up a state secret and (almost) his life to save yours, and had since been sent packing in disgrace for the offence? "How is he?" Ruth asked at last, her voice croaky. She swallowed nervously, waiting for Catherine's reply. Crackling again, this time in a sigh of fear and distress. "He's been better," Catherine replied bluntly. "Significantly better. I visited him last week, Ruth, and he practically threw me out. Said he didn't want sympathy or people fussing round him..." Harry's daughter trailed off tearfully, clearly upset by what had happened. Ruth closed her eyes briefly in pain. No matter how many times she had shied away from thoughts of Harry, she hadn't been able to completely stop herself from imagining what his life was like now. How he was coping. What he was doing.

She cleared her throat with a slight cough, and told Catherine gently, "He lost everything a few months ago, Catherine – his career, his knighthood... The wheelchair can't help matters, either." There, she had said it. Harry, in a wheelchair. Harry, a cripple as a result of Lucas' misplaced bullet, meant for his brain, which had shattered part of Harry's spine, leaving him paralysed from the waist down. Catherine sniffed, and Ruth realised that her own eyes were watering. "You and I both know he was prepared to be chucked out of the Service," Catherine argued softly. "And the knighthood didn't mean a thing to him, Ruth. But I'm worried about him."

The admission hardly surprised the older woman. But Ruth was still puzzled. "I don't see what this has to do with me, Catherine," she announced quietly. Catherine's voice returned, angry and accusing, like the rather petulant teenage girl Harry had described to them all those years ago. "I thought you were his friend. I thought you and he were..." The unspoken words held a meaning all too clear to Ruth. _Something that was never said. Something wonderful that was never said_.She brushed away the tears with a vexed swipe of her hand, ignoring Dimitri's concerned look as he sat down at his own station. Since Beth's departure, he had become suddenly far more protective of Ruth and Tariq, the only remainders of the old battalion. "Yes, well, that was a long time ago," she interrupted brusquely. "Trust me, Catherine, I'm the last person he'd want to see. Just give him some time."

"Please, Ruth," Catherine begged. "Just one visit. Talk to him, try to make him see sense. I'm... I'm worried about what he might do." Her implication was once again clear. Ruth forced herself to remain objective, cold, calculating. That was, after all, what she was good at. "Your father isn't the type of man to commit suicide."

Catherine sighed, exasperated. She had never imagined that Ruth Evershed would be this cold. Stubborn, she had been prepared for. But never cold. "Before all this, I'd have agreed with you," she admitted. "He isn't a coward, Ruth, but he's hurting. I can't think of anyone else to call. I can't think of anyone else who can help him." Ruth bit her lip firmly, trying to quell the sudden image her brain has presented her with. Harry, trying to hurt himself. Harry, dying alone, old and broken. "I see," she whispered.

"Please, Ruth," Catherine repeated desperately. If anyone could help her father, Ruth Evershed could. Of that, she was convinced.

Ruth made a snap decision. She reached for her pad and pen.

"Where is he?"

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><p><strong>AN: Please don't be mad at me for what I've done to Harry... <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thanks for the great reviews! Enter Harry...**

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><p>Wales in December, Ruth decided, was not a great place to be. Freezing rain lashed her face as she hammered on the peeling paint of the grey stone cottage's door. The Service, she knew, had provided Harry with this house, on the top of a gloomy hill with a tiny village just about in view, and as she looked at the state of it, she cursed Richard Dolby, Erin Watts and all the other bloody bureaucrats who had consigned Harry, <em>her<em> Harry, to such a miserable existence. There was no answer at the door, not even a sign of life within when she tried to peer through the windows, although they were so dirty, Ruth didn't think she'd be able to see anything even if there was anything to see.

She scowled and opened the letterbox. "Come on, you old curmudgeon!" she yelled angrily. "Open the bloody door! I know you're in there!" There was silence again, and then, over the howling wind, she heard the unmistakeable rhythmical click of wheels from inside. The door creaked open to reveal Harry Pearce. His once brown hair was almost completely grey now, matted and much longer than she had ever seen it, and his face wasn't much better. A t-shirt and tracksuit trousers hung loosely on him, as far away from his crisp Savile Row suits as it was possible to get. He was grimacing with the effort of having wheeled himself from wherever he had been situated, and his forehead bore a slight sheen of sweat – from exhaustion or pain, Ruth wasn't sure. "Ruth?" he breathed, and it seemed to her that his hazel eyes, bloodshot through drink, lack of sleep, or both, brightened momentarily, fractionally.

"H-hello, H-harry..." she stuttered, stepping forwards. His face hardened mechanically. The brief brightness vanished from his eyes. "Why are you here?" he interrogated her frigidly. Ruth rolled her eyes and took another step forwards. "Harry," she began, exasperated, "it's f-freezing out here. Can't I come in?" He surveyed her in silence for a few moments and then wheeled himself backwards in a silent invitation. Ruth walked in, shutting the door behind her with a snap. A few flakes of paint fell from the walls and pattered softly onto the floor

"Why are you here?" Harry repeated from behind her. She sighed and removed her coat, grimacing as water droplets fell steadily from her umbrella onto the dusty dark wood of the floor. As she did so, she heard Harry wheeling himself into the living room, and she followed. "Catherine rang me last week – " she began quietly, but Harry didn't allow her to finish. A bitter chuckle escaped his taut lips and his next words were spat out angrily. "Ah, I see. Told you the old man needed a visit, did she? Told you to go and offer him some sympathy and pity? And you decided to sacrifice an afternoon to him?" With each question his voice became more vicious, his anger building systematically. Ruth whirled around and saw that his face had gone red and that he was breathing heavily, shoulders heaving.

Scowling, she snapped, "It wasn't like that! It wasn't a bloody sacrifice!" Harry snorted in disbelief and she looked away, her throat closing on her next words. With a blush, she managed, "I-I wanted to see you." He turned his wheelchair round with difficulty (her fingers itched to help him), settling it next to the coffee table, which bore an almost empty bottle of whisky. Ruth tried to pretend she couldn't also see the small bottle of pills that rested next to it, full and sealed, which Harry hastily slipped into his pocket, but her heart sank at the sight of them. Catherine had been right, then – at least partly. "How nice," he replied sarcastically. "Well, you've seen me now. Happy, are you?"

Her face creased in confusion. "Happy?" she echoed. "_Happy?_ I don't – " Harry slammed the flat of his hand down on the coffee table in frustration and she jumped. "Breathing a sigh of relief over your lucky escape, are you?" he inquired icily. "Just think, Ruth, if you hadn't been so damned sensible and refused me when I proposed, you'd be stuck with a cripple now!" Ruth had had enough. Her stomach was churning with the liberation of extreme anger, and the bile rose in her throat as she shouted shrilly, "You think I feel _relieved?_ Don't be so stupid!" Harry's lip curled in disgust. He looked more alive now, however, and Ruth couldn't help feeling that a good row would do him good.

"Stupid? You could barely look at me in that hospital room!" he reminded her harshly. She winced visibly and sank down onto the hard cushions of the sofa. She had rushed to Harry's bedside as soon as she had heard about the incident on the rooftop. She had lied to the nurses and the doctors, pretended to be his next of kin (for the second time in their long history) and had been there when he had woken, groggy from the drugs they'd given him, and discovered the loss of feeling in his legs. He had cried like a child, pitifully and desperately, clinging onto her hand for long moments, while Ruth tried to avoid copying him. Someone had to be strong, after all.

"I was hurting for you, Harry!" she explained, hotly. "You didn't need my pain as well as your own..." But he clearly wasn't listening. His eyes were closed, as though he were remembering something extremely unpleasant. He looked horridly weary. "One visit," he murmured in a monotone. "And then it was as if you'd disappeared off the face of the bloody earth. Until the inquiry, of course." His last words stung more than anything else. She had hated her day in the inquiry, being forced to go over every inch of her and Harry's relationship, while the sceptical tribunal panel looked on, occasionally casting derisive glances in the direction of the broken man whose future rested in their hands.

"I know," she whispered. "You can't imagine how much I regret it. It was a shabby, cowardly thing to do." She let out a shuddering breath and rose, shaking her head. "It was a mistake to come here," she admitted, shell-shocked. She had never once imagined that things would end this way between them. "I should go..." Harry buried his head in his hands, and his voice was muffled as he agreed tiredly, "I think you're right." Ruth stifled a sob and turned away. Her melancholy figure, with hunched shoulders and damp hair, awoke a long forgotten feeling in his chest. Protectiveness. He rolled his eyes. That was what had got them into this mess in the first bloody place...

His voice halted her at the door. "Ruth..." She turned back to him, heart thudding with anticipation. "It's nearly lunchtime," he announced in an off-hand voice. "Why don't you stay? I-I'd like the company." The anger had melted from his eyes, and they were suddenly soft and pleading.

She nodded.

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><p><strong>AN: Last chapter coming soon...<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Final chapter. Thanks for all your lovely reviews. Hope you enjoy...**

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><p>"You've hardly got anything in your cupboards, Harry," she scolded, after a search of the kitchen had yielded nothing more than half a block of Cheddar and a loaf of bread. "How ever have you been managing?" Harry didn't reply for a moment. He was seated at the table in his chair, staring out of the misty windows. Gently, Ruth touched his hand and repeated her question. "There's a lady in the village shop who brings me up a few things when I remember to ask..." he explained distractedly.<p>

Ruth raised her eyebrows. "And when was the last time you did that?" she asked wryly.

He shrugged. She sighed. "Well, cheese on toast will have to do."

They sat at the wooden table, scrubbed vigorously by Ruth while their lunch was grilling, and ate, Ruth trying to ignore how ravenously Harry was devouring the food she had made. "How are you, Harry?" she asked. "Really, I mean." Harry swallowed his bite of cheese on toast and took a swig from his glass of water – Ruth had sternly poured the remainder of the bottle of the whisky down the sink – before replying. "Tired. Old. Helpless. Frustrated." The list of adjectives almost brought tears to her eyes.

"Why did you come out here in the first place?" she whispered, the barest hint of a rebuke in her voice. "If you'd stayed in London, I could have... I mean, the Service could have found someone to help you..." She hadn't missed the blanket and pillow in the living room that Harry had quickly shoved out of sight behind the sofa, and had realised he'd been sleeping in the chair rather than face getting himself into a proper bed. "I couldn't have borne the humiliation, Ruth. You know that," he reminded her, his voice rough.

"Stubborn man," she joked weakly. He smiled, the first smile he'd smiled in months, and gave a one-sided shrug of the shoulders. "Perhaps," he acknowledged. "What would I have wanted with some Service nurse? The only person I wanted was..." He paused, biting his lip, and Ruth wondered what he was planning to say next. The word he settled on was, "Unattainable." She ducked her head, her cheeks flushing faintly, and for a while the only sounds that could be heard were those of eating and drinking. Finally, swallowing down her sudden and irrational shyness, she informed him, "I... I'm here now."

Harry patted her hand kindly. "For today," he nodded. "Tomorrow, you'll be back in London, on the Grid." She gritted her teeth and shook her hair back from her face.

"No, I won't," she retorted smugly. "You see, Harry, before I left, I... I resigned." His face paled rapidly and his eyes widened in shock. Ruth could have sworn that his breathing had sped up too, from the way that his nostrils were dilating rapidly. "What?" he forced himself to ask, trying to keep his voice level. She shrugged at him, a faint, helpless grin forming across her pretty face. "I resigned," she repeated. "Things haven't been the same since you left. I haven't wanted to be there, so I resigned." Her voice grew stronger. "I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."

They looked at each other, Harry stunned, Ruth defiant. "That was a very presumptuous thing to have done, Miss Evershed," he croaked at last. Her mouth twisted dryly.

"Perhaps," she acknowledged with a graceful incline of her head. Harry shook his own, tightly. "You can't do this, Ruth," he told her insistently.

"Do what?" she inquired lightly, feigning ignorance. He flashed her 'the look' – a glare that would have frozen any of his other former subordinates in their tracks. Not Ruth. He sighed. "Give up your life, your career, to the care of a crippled old wreck," he elaborated with a gesture of his large hand. "It wouldn't be right to let you – " Ruth's dark eyebrows shot up and her next words were pronounced in accents of extreme indignation.

"_Let_ me? I'm a free person, Harry Pearce, and I make my own choices! And I'm choosing to be here, with you." He scowled and his mouth tightened sharply. "Ruth, you don't understand!" he snapped, frustrated. She rose from the table and removed their now-empty plates, beginning to run washing up water. "Then explain!" she ordered, exasperated. "If you don't want me, if you've changed your mind – " He wheeled himself over to her side and rested a hesitant hand on her elbow. "There's nothing I want more, my darling," he murmured sincerely, "but it would be cruel and selfish. If you stayed, if we married..." He grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. Ruth could not be allowed to throw herself away on him without at least knowing all the facts, even if her departure would probably finish him off for good. "There's no chance of an _ordinary_ relationship," he stated baldly. "Sex is unlikely, children even more so. That isn't the life I want for you."

She shrugged out of his hold irritably. "I'm an analyst, Harry – don't you think I would have worked all that out for myself? And I'm still here." He bowed his head quietly, but his resolve was not shaken. "It's a sacrifice I can't ask you to make, Ruth."

She was cleaning the plates now, up to her elbows in soapy water, but her voice was determined and entirely focused when she quoted, "To be privileged to put my arms round what I value – to press my lips to what I love – to repose on what I trust: is that to make a sacrifice?" He couldn't help but smile. Trust Ruth...

"Jane Eyre," he voiced, amused. She turned to face him, and he was surprised to see that a tear was tracing a faint line of moisture down her cheek. "But it's true for me, too, Harry," she cried.

"You really want me?" he asked, disbelieving. "Even with..." His voice trailed off, unable to form words emphatic enough of his inadequacy. Mr Rochesters only got their Jane Eyres in novels, after all. She sat down so that they were on a level and took his hands, leaning forwards earnestly. "Even with the wheelchair, and your bad moods, and your habit of drinking whisky far too early in the day, and your vanity and pride – " He cut her off with an indignant chuckle.

"Vanity and pride?" he reiterated, voice breathy with laughter. "Well, I could say the same about your stubbornness and bloody-minded attitude to absolutely _everything_ – " Ruth silenced him with a kiss, swift and hard. Tears mingled, and hands intertwined. Forever.

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><p><strong>AN: Maybe an epilogue... I'm not sure yet.<strong>


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